uncle?”
Her face reddened. “You met him. The Duke.”
~~~
Charlotte sensed Braden had indeed not known of the complicated history of the Scottish monarchs. Her heart was starting to believe he’d travelled from the fifteen century, but her mind refused to accept it.
Retelling her country’s story had unsettled her. She was strongly on the government side, and was fully aware of the unsuitability of the wastrel Bonnie Prince, yet the Jacobites did have a legitimate claim to the throne.
Now she’d blurted out her identity. It was difficult to tell from Braden’s facial expression if he’d suspected her relationship to the Duke.
On top of that, she’d barely written a word. They’d spent hours in discussion, yet she knew little more about him. However, it had been stimulating. She was comfortable with him.
Her uncle had paraded many eligible young noblemen before her in the hopes of a good marriage, but she was more at ease with this rough diamond than with any of them. And nary a one had caused the peculiar sensations that crept up her thighs and into her womb when she raked her eyes over his braw body.
He’d a ready smile that sent hot and cold shivers up and down her spine, and he’d refrained from using the word Bollocks after her first look of indignation. Now she wished she hadn’t been so judgmental. It was a good word in that it conveyed exactly the speaker’s feelings. She couldn’t wait to see Augusta’s reaction when she blurted it out.
He’d mentioned his sister’s censure of the expression.
His sister. She’d forgotten his concerns. “Now you’re up to date, we must devise a way to find out about Margaret.”
His eyes lost their glow. “Aye. We must.”
She tapped her fingers against her chin. “The closest university is King’s College in Aberdeen, but that’s three days away, through territory where many fugitive Jacobites might be hiding.”
“Mayhap yer uncle will have a suggestion.”
She tried not to appear startled, but he wasn’t fooled.
“He isna aware ye’ve taken me under yer wing, is he?”
No point lying, Braden was too perceptive for that. “No, but perhaps it’s time to tell him.”
“Does he share yer interest in history?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers.
Had he guessed she was devising a plan to explain her rescue of Braden to her uncle? Did he sense she was hiding something?
She became nervous when he sauntered over to the desk and picked up the wig. “He’ll be angry. I should leave Inbhir Nis now. I dinna want to bring ye trouble.”
The prospect of losing him left her distraught. She grabbed the wig out of his hands and clamped it onto her head. “Nay. You’re not guilty of any crime, but it would be a punishment to cast you out now. Where would you go? You don’t know anyone in this cent—”
God help me, I do believe him.
She wondered if he smiled because he recognized her epiphany, or because the wig made her look ridiculous.
Of all the men in Scotland she was drawn to one who was more than three hundred years old—that was ridiculous, so she may as well look the part.
VESUVIUS ERUPTS
Charlotte hastened along the corridor to her uncle’s office, afraid she might be too late. Perhaps he’d already left for the midday meal. The wig teetered precariously, tempting her to toss the contraption to the floor.
She tapped on his door, relieved to hear his voice bid her enter.
His mouth fell open when he saw her.
The sergeant who served as his secretary rose too quickly, jostling his desk and causing the inkwell to clatter to the floor. He cursed under his breath as he fell to his knees to retrieve it. Black ink trickled out, staining his hands. He reached for paper to mop up the mess.
One of the two chained prisoners gaped at her wig, the other sniggered at the sergeant when he bumped his head on the desk. It dawned on her that the acrid odor filling the office emanated from the Jacobites. She thought of Braden who’d
Her face reddened. “You met him. The Duke.”
~~~
Charlotte sensed Braden had indeed not known of the complicated history of the Scottish monarchs. Her heart was starting to believe he’d travelled from the fifteen century, but her mind refused to accept it.
Retelling her country’s story had unsettled her. She was strongly on the government side, and was fully aware of the unsuitability of the wastrel Bonnie Prince, yet the Jacobites did have a legitimate claim to the throne.
Now she’d blurted out her identity. It was difficult to tell from Braden’s facial expression if he’d suspected her relationship to the Duke.
On top of that, she’d barely written a word. They’d spent hours in discussion, yet she knew little more about him. However, it had been stimulating. She was comfortable with him.
Her uncle had paraded many eligible young noblemen before her in the hopes of a good marriage, but she was more at ease with this rough diamond than with any of them. And nary a one had caused the peculiar sensations that crept up her thighs and into her womb when she raked her eyes over his braw body.
He’d a ready smile that sent hot and cold shivers up and down her spine, and he’d refrained from using the word Bollocks after her first look of indignation. Now she wished she hadn’t been so judgmental. It was a good word in that it conveyed exactly the speaker’s feelings. She couldn’t wait to see Augusta’s reaction when she blurted it out.
He’d mentioned his sister’s censure of the expression.
His sister. She’d forgotten his concerns. “Now you’re up to date, we must devise a way to find out about Margaret.”
His eyes lost their glow. “Aye. We must.”
She tapped her fingers against her chin. “The closest university is King’s College in Aberdeen, but that’s three days away, through territory where many fugitive Jacobites might be hiding.”
“Mayhap yer uncle will have a suggestion.”
She tried not to appear startled, but he wasn’t fooled.
“He isna aware ye’ve taken me under yer wing, is he?”
No point lying, Braden was too perceptive for that. “No, but perhaps it’s time to tell him.”
“Does he share yer interest in history?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers.
Had he guessed she was devising a plan to explain her rescue of Braden to her uncle? Did he sense she was hiding something?
She became nervous when he sauntered over to the desk and picked up the wig. “He’ll be angry. I should leave Inbhir Nis now. I dinna want to bring ye trouble.”
The prospect of losing him left her distraught. She grabbed the wig out of his hands and clamped it onto her head. “Nay. You’re not guilty of any crime, but it would be a punishment to cast you out now. Where would you go? You don’t know anyone in this cent—”
God help me, I do believe him.
She wondered if he smiled because he recognized her epiphany, or because the wig made her look ridiculous.
Of all the men in Scotland she was drawn to one who was more than three hundred years old—that was ridiculous, so she may as well look the part.
VESUVIUS ERUPTS
Charlotte hastened along the corridor to her uncle’s office, afraid she might be too late. Perhaps he’d already left for the midday meal. The wig teetered precariously, tempting her to toss the contraption to the floor.
She tapped on his door, relieved to hear his voice bid her enter.
His mouth fell open when he saw her.
The sergeant who served as his secretary rose too quickly, jostling his desk and causing the inkwell to clatter to the floor. He cursed under his breath as he fell to his knees to retrieve it. Black ink trickled out, staining his hands. He reached for paper to mop up the mess.
One of the two chained prisoners gaped at her wig, the other sniggered at the sergeant when he bumped his head on the desk. It dawned on her that the acrid odor filling the office emanated from the Jacobites. She thought of Braden who’d
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